


Unable Are The Loved To Die, For Love Is Immortality

by ladypigswagon



Series: Tumblr Prompts [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Auctioneer!Peter, Immortal!Lydia, Immortal!Stiles, M/M, Stiles and Lydia are Greek in ethnicity in this fic, Tumblr Prompt, Vampire!Isaac, Vampire!Scott, Witch!Lydia, Witch!Stiles, bisexual!Stiles, human!peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:37:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles takes a long drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out of the open window. It’s raining. A few droplets manage to find their way inside, hitting the peeling white windowsill or dripping down the leaves of the assortment of plants that would usually be basking in the Californian sun. Stiles takes another drag, ignoring the glare that Lydia is giving him whilst she sprinkles essence of wormwood into the cauldron bubbling away on the stove. </p><p>“You’d think after 4000 years, you’d have stopped picking up bad habits,” Lydia says primly; dicing the spleen of a pig into neat, equal sized chunks. Stiles ignores her. He takes another drag before stubbing the cigarette out in the crystal ashtray they’d stolen from Buckingham Palace. Well they is a loose term. Stiles stole it, an extra payment from her Majesty. Stiles almost lost a finger to those pixies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unable Are The Loved To Die, For Love Is Immortality

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous - 'The biggest rule of immortality is to not get involved with mortals but whoops I was in a coffee shop one day and fell in love with you and now I’m freaking out because in the grand scope of things we don’t get a lot of time together but fuck no please don’t leave me not yet no.’ au for steter with immortal stiles please (& happy ending some how would be grand maybe stiles gives up his immortality or peter gets it via vampire idk rly whatever you like though) thanks:)
> 
> Lydia and Stiles are Greek in origin in this story so that I could make them train under the enchantress Circe. Hence why Stiles has a Greek name instead of the traditional Polish. 
> 
> The title is a quote from Emily Dickenson

Stiles takes a long drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out of the open window. It’s raining. A few droplets manage to find their way inside, hitting the peeling white windowsill or dripping down the leaves of the assortment of plants that would usually be basking in the Californian sun. Stiles takes another drag, ignoring the glare that Lydia is giving him whilst she sprinkles essence of wormwood into the cauldron bubbling away on the stove.

 

“You’d think after 4000 years, you’d have stopped picking up bad habits,” Lydia says primly; dicing the spleen of a pig into neat, equal sized chunks. Stiles ignores her. He takes another drag before stubbing the cigarette out in the crystal ashtray they’d stolen from Buckingham Palace. Well they is a loose term. Stiles stole it, an extra payment from her Majesty. Stiles almost lost a finger to those pixies.

 

“I could use some help you know,” Lydia, says pointedly, washing her hands in the sink and flicking her wrist so that the ladle in the cauldron begins to stir the mixture.

 

“But you’re doing just fine on your own,” Stiles replies, crossing to the bookshelf to run his hand along the spines. “Besides, I promised Isaac I’d have a look at Scott’s motorcycle for him. Apparently Scott’s love for it is no longer holding it together.”

 

Lydia scowls.  Stiles retrieves the correct book and flips it open, pretending not to notice Lydia’s glower.

 

“Vampires,” She mutters, throwing the towel onto the kitchen side with a little more force than was necessary. “They’ve been around for hundreds of years, why do they feel the need to buy shitty transport?”

 

Stiles opens his mouth to answer but she cuts him off with an impatient hand gesture.

 

“I know, I know,” she says. “ _Assimilation._ ”

 

Stiles smirks. He snaps the book shut before carrying over to the messenger bag beside the front door, depositing it inside. He pulls his red hoodie off the coat rack, slips into it with ease before pulling on his shoes. Lydia continues to aggressively chop ingredients for her potion. Stiles retrieves his keys from the hook, chucking them into his bag.

 

“I’ll be back later,” Stiles tells Lydia, pulling his hood up. Lydia snorts.

 

“I’m not coming out at some ridiculous time in the morning to save your sorry ass from whatever drunken fight you wander into.”

 

“Come on Lyds, as if I would do such a thing.”

 

Lydia’s expression is unimpressed. Stiles grins, like the asshole he is and ducks out into the pouring rain.

 

 

“Remind me again,” Stiles says, running his fingertips along Scott’s motorcycle gingerly, “Why you thought duct tape was a better option than magic?”

 

Isaac glares pointedly at Scott after this statement. Scott shrugs and scratches his head, smiling awkwardly. Stiles sighs because even though he loves Scott like a brother, he can be a little oblivious. He’s 400 years old for Zeus’s sake; he should have learned a few things. Stiles crouches down, running a fingertip over the cracked paintwork. He hums to himself before ripping it off entirely. Scott’s jaw drops and he whimpers slightly. Isaac pats his arm consolingly.

 

“I’m gonna have to repaint these ruins,” Stiles muses. He looks up at Scott, who deliberately looks away, perhaps ashamed by his complete lack of care for his precious motorcycle. Stiles turns his head back to the bike and taps the exhaust pipe gently. It falls off, clattering to the floor.

 

“How did you even drive this here?” Stiles asks. He stands up, collecting the exhaust from the pavement and examining it closely.

 

“It was fine until now,” Scott mumbles, shifting from foot to foot. Isaac is looking murderous. Scott has the sense not to meet Isaac’s eye for fear of melting beneath the gaze.

 

“Well you clearly have issues that need addressing,” Stiles observes, placing the exhaust on the saddle of the motorcycle. “I’m gonna buy a coffee and work out how to fix this affront to safety regulations whilst Isaac does that whole monologue thing he’s been doing since the 50’s.”

 

Stiles checks the traffic before walking to the coffee shop across the road from where they’d parked. He may or may not smirk when Isaac launches into the aforementioned monologue. To be fair to Isaac, 200 years of matrimony wasn’t going to straighten out every issue. Stiles sometimes wonders how the mortals even manage without the luxury of eternity to truly solve their issues. Though he supposes that is the benefit of mortality. Solve your problems quickly because you simply do not have the time not to deal with them.

 

Stiles has never had much time for mortals. Their lives are so fleeting, here one minute, dead the next. Also the nasty habit they had of being extremely bigoted when it came to the magical realm. Stiles remembers the witch hunts in Technicolor detail. Mortals are so superstitious, so blind to the world around them. It’s best to keep interaction to a minimum.

 

Stiles orders a simple black espresso. He lounges in a seat by the window. He can watch Isaac and Scott better from here, keep an eye on them incase the fight gets too heated. Isaac has a habit when angry to let his fangs descend. It kind of ruins the argument when he starts slurring around them however Stiles needs to be able to see in order to cast a glamour. Despite mortals’ absurd fascination with the supernatural romance genre, it is highly unlikely that they would respond well to an actual vampire on their street.

 

God Stiles hates the supernatural romance genre; they clearly have no idea what the magical realm is like. Vampires for starters. Vampire, like werewolves, are a subset of humanity. They can go out in daylight, eat garlic bread, walk into a church. They just happen to be supernaturally advanced, immortal and need the occasionally pint of blood. And whoever wrote that silver was harmful to werewolves evidently never met one.

 

“Excuse me,” a voice says, breaking Stiles out of his angry internal rant. Stiles turns to look at the owner of the voice, the chatter and bustle of the coffee shop bleeding back into focus. The mortal is tall, muscular and possibly in his early thirties. Stiles has never been good with mortal ages. The mortal is handsome, Stiles likes the electric blue eyes. He’s probably a businessman of some sorts, judging from the briefcase and expensive looking suit.

 

“Are you finished with that?” the mortal asks, pointing to the newspaper lying on the table. Stiles wasn’t even aware there was one.

 

“Sure,” Stiles replies, handing it to the stranger.

 

“Much appreciated,” the stranger says, accepting the newspaper. He turns, evidently searching for somewhere to sit but the café is teeming with people and every available seat appears to be taken. Stiles pushes the chair opposite out with his foot.

 

“Take a seat,” Stiles instructs, “I’ll be gone as soon as I finish this.” He shakes the coffee cup in his hand to demonstrate how little is left in it. The stranger observes Stiles with those piercing eyes for a few seconds, almost as if he is debating whether Stiles is worth his time. Stiles takes a sip of his coffee, not breaking the eye contact. He’s stared down a Sphinx; this man is no trouble. Eventually the stranger gives in and deposits his leather briefcase on the floor. Stiles returns his attention to Isaac and Scott. Isaac has escalated to angry, wild gestures at this point.

 

“Peter,” the stranger says. Stiles faces him, trying to see if he heard correctly. The stranger looks up from his paper and smiles. It ooze charm and seduction.

 

“Peter,” the man repeats. The smile returns. “Peter Hale.”

 

“John,” Stiles lies. “John Smith.” The lie rolls off his tongue with ease. Stiles is practiced at lying, has honed into a fine art. He’s lied about so many things over the last 4000 years, mostly to avoid mortal suspicion. And mortals can be so suspicious.

 

“So John Smith,” Peter says, testing the name. “Do you come here often?”

 

Stiles wants to groan at the conversational tone that Peter uses. Oldest line ever. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure he invented that line. That line is so terribly ancient; it went out of fashion in the middle ages.

 

“I only ask,” Peter continues, “because this is one of my favorite haunts and I’ve never seen you frequent it.”

 

“Cute,” Stiles replies, leaning back in his chair so that it balances on two legs. “You use that line on all the pretty boys you want to fuck.”

 

Shock passes quickly over Peter’s face. It’s replaced with smugness in a matter of seconds. Stiles has seen it all before. He’s had many flings with many mortals over the years. They were all brief, Stiles has no desire to stay with someone who will age whilst he doesn’t. There is a benefit to having simple, easy flings with finite beings. They die and don’t hold a grudge against you for all eternity. The succubus from Venice in 1512 flickers into the forefront of Stiles mind. He looks over to Isaac and Scott to distract himself.

 

“Who says I want to fuck you,” Peter says. He takes a long sip from his cup before continuing. Not that Stiles is particularly interested. He’s more concerned with the fact that Isaac has snapped off the handlebars of the motorcycle, which were the only thing in good condition. Though to passersby the awful state of Scott’s bike would allow for Isaac to simply rip the handlebars off. No supernatural strength needed.

 

“Perhaps I want to take you to dinner,” Peter continues, “Get to know you a little better. I’m particularly interested as to why a boy as young as yourself would be carrying a text so ancient and valuable in a messenger bag.”

 

Stiles chair hits the floor with a crack. He reaches down to grab his bag, whipping it out of Peter’s reach. Peter’s smug smirk has returned. Stiles sends his magic out, trying to get a reading. Peter screams mortal but it’s worth checking. It’s not uncommon for mortals to stumble into magic or pursue it. A privileged few have enough magic in their bloodline to slow the ageing process somewhat. But eventually age catches up. Only the pure of magic are immortal.

 

“Why are you so interested?” Stiles asks.

 

“Can’t a man be curious?” Peter asks coyly. Stiles tilts his head, running his tongue only the edge of his teeth.

 

“A man can,” Stiles counters, “But didn’t you know curiosity killed the cat.”

 

“But satisfaction brought it back,” Peter replies dryly, brushing lint from his suit. He reaches into his inside pocket, retrieving a small white business card. He hands the card to Stiles. Stiles doesn’t accept so Peter lets it drop onto the table. Peter lifts his cup and drains it. “Should you ever want to sell that book or enquire about owning any other volumes, feel free to give me a call.”

 

Peter leans down, until he’s inches from Stiles face. “Be it a professional or personal call.” Peter’s lip curls. Stiles gazes hardens in response. Peter leaves gracefully. Stiles watches him go. He’s gonna have a _long_ conversation with Lydia when he gets home. For now, he has to sort out Scott’s excuse for a motorcycle. Preferably before Isaac rips it apart.

 

 

 

“I want to meet him,” Lydia decides after studying the embossed card for several minutes. Stiles chokes on the noodles he’s shoveling into his mouth so Scott thumps him on the back. Stiles splutters but manages to regain the function of his lungs.

 

“Why?” Stiles demands, pointing a chopstick at Lydia. She’s sat on the loveseat in front of the window, painting her toenails a violent blood red. Stiles, Scott and Isaac are sharing the sofa. Lydia has her old records on the turntable, from a concert that they were all at in 1973. A wild night. Scott lost his shoes, Isaac nearly punched a security guard and Stiles broke his nose in a mosh pit.

 

“To assess whether he’s a potential threat,” Lydia replies. She tightens the lid of the nail polish bottle with one hand, waving the other so that her toenails are dry. Stiles chews his noodles moodily. “Once we know whether he’s a threat or not, it will dictate our actions.”

 

“Perhaps Stiles should have agreed to his date,” Isaac suggests, winking at Stiles. Stiles glowers.

 

“Bite me Lahey,” He grumbles, chewing a prawn viciously.

 

“No thanks,” Isaac replies, “I don’t know where you’ve been.” Isaac takes a long sip from his glass of blood whilst Lydia cackles with laughter.

 

“Why are you married to this scarf wearing heathen?” Stiles mutters. Scott shrugs and looks at Isaac with those irritating puppy eyes. He is evidently a lost case. Stiles gets up to dispose of his bowl before Isaac and Scott start kissing. That is more flesh and blood than he could stand.

 

“Why on earth would he be here two days in a row?” Stiles hisses. Lydia takes a delicate bite of her caramel shortbread and declines to answer. Stiles slumps in his seat, glaring moodily out of the window. It’s a beautiful sunny day and Stiles should be enjoying it but no he’s stuck inside with Lydia waiting for Peter Hale the mystery auctioneer to turn up. He’d rather be doing anything else. Even letting Isaac take him shopping.

 

“Well, well, well,” A voice drawls, slick as oil and sweet as honey, “Back again John.” Stiles looks up to see Peter, dressed impeccably in another expensive suit, this one navy blue. He’s smiling with careful charm. “And you is your lovely companion?”

 

“Jane Smith,” Lydia says, extending a hand, “His sister.”

 

Peter shakes the hand. Stiles watches as Lydia gets a reading on him. She has always worked better with skin-to-skin contact. Her eyes flicker gold.

 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Peter says smoothly, “Have you considered my proposal John? I have a wide variety of books that you might be interested in.” Stiles snorts. He’s been alive for 4000 years. He has the lost texts from the Library of Alexandria digitalized with that hard copies hidden away from prying eyes.  Whatever this man is selling, Stiles doesn’t need to buy. Lydia however kicks him sharply beneath the table.

 

“Ow,” Stiles mutters. He glares at Lydia. She smiles like the angel she isn’t in return.

 

“Do you have an office nearby?” Lydia asks brightly. Peter oozes smugness once again. Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“As a matter of fact I do,” Peter says, extending his arm like a gentleman from the 18th century. “Would you like to browse the collection we have in house?”

 

“That would be wonderful,” Lydia replies. Her voice has taken on an irritating, simpering, feminine tone. Stiles want to punch her. He doesn’t. Partly because it would blow their cover but mostly because she would annihilate him. Stile trails behind Peter and Lydia, who are chattering together arm in arm. He feels like a third wheel. He’s fully aware that his foul mood is affecting his magic, causing the flowers in the florist’s across the road to wilt but he can’t bring himself to care.

 

“Are you alright John?” Lydia enquires pointedly, when they reach a tall, sandstone building with Hale Auctioneers emblazoned across it in bronze lettering. She grabs his arm in what to passersby is probably a comforting gesture but is a grip like iron. “Fix the flowers,” She hisses. Stiles sticks his tongue out her but as Peter’s turns his back to open the door for them, he flicks his wrist and the flowers spring back into bloom.

 

“Come in,” Peter says, ushering them inside. The décor is all soft autumn tones and expensive furniture. Stiles smirks because the painting on the wall is a fake. Lydia burned the original to get rid of an evil spirit in 1817. Lydia shares a smirk with Stiles. Peter whisks them into an elevator. There is actual music playing in it, which is a surprise. Stiles was sure that only happened in movies.

 

Peter’s office is very swanky. It’s mostly monochrome apart from the bookshelves lining the east wall. Peter pulls a chair out for them both. Stiles notes that Peter stands considerably closer to Stiles than Lydia when he does this.  His cologne smells like dry earth and salt.  Stiles leans back in the plush office chairs, letting Lydia take the reins. He watches a fly buzz about the ceiling in those strange square flight patterns they always seem to do. Peter runs a hand over a glossy catalogue, pointing out items of interest to Lydia. She hums and haws, presenting the image of a person who is genuinely interested. Stiles traces swirls in the fabric of his jeans.

 

“Perhaps you’d like to see these items up close?” Peter offers. He’s smiling like a cat that has not only eaten the cream but the entire contents of the fridge. It’s unnerving and only a tiny bit sexy.

 

“We would,” Lydia says, simpering sweet, “But John and I have an appointment. Perhaps another time.” She stands, shaking Peter’s hand before smoothing out her skirt. Stiles scrambles to his feet, trying to avoid tripping over the clawed feet of the desk. 4000 years has not gifted him with grace. He shakes Peter’s hand as well, to carry on the pretense. Peter is reluctant to relax his grip.

 

“Remember you can call anytime,” Peter purrs, blue eyes staring directly into Stiles amber ones. “Professional or personal.”

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow and snorts. Peter’s answering smirk is arrogant in nature. Stiles pretends he doesn’t find that attractive.

 

 

 

“I think you should go on a date with him,” Lydia says. Stiles gives her a look, which implies that Lydia has lost her marbles. Lydia ignores him. She continues to dice up spiced ginger root with one hand; the other is stirring the cauldron. Stiles chucks the snake skeleton into it, watching the liquid bubble and turn turquoise.

 

“I’m serious Stiles,” Lydia continues, brushing her hair from her eyes. “You should – Jesus would you rebraid my hair – go on a couple of dates, fool around. He’s attractive. And harmless.” Stiles rips off his rubber gloves so he can scrap back Lydia’s hair and braid it properly. It’s a simple plait but it will keep her hair from getting into her eyes or the potion. They can’t afford to mess this up. Well financially yes they can, they’re fucking loaded. But to avoid an angry brownie, it’s perhaps best that they don’t mess up.

 

“I haven’t dated a mortal since 1903,” Stiles replies, pulling his gloves back on. He begins to grind up two buttered giants fingers. “It’s messy and complicated.”

 

“I’m telling you to be wined and dined,” Lydia replies, “Not enter into a marriage with the possibility of children. White picket fence etc.” Stiles grumbles, grinding harder. “You could do with some stress relief is all I’m saying.”

 

“I’ll think about it,” Stiles mutters. Lydia shrugs. She sprinkles sea salt on top of the potion, which changes its scent from lemon to the ocean after a storm. It fills the tiny apartment, making Stiles think of the beach and lazy summer days. And mermaids. He can’t remember the last time he saw a mermaid.

 

“There’s a few in Beacon Hills Lake,” Lydia replies. Stiles sometimes forgets he muses out loud. “And careful with the grinding, you’ll lose some of it.” Stiles lessens his grip on the pestle.

 

 

Stiles goes on a date with Peter. Much against his better judgment. Peter on the other hand is delighted. They go to the art museum, which has a special exhibit on 18th century historical paintings. Stiles tells Peter stories about every artwork. They’re ludicrous but true, not that Peter would ever know that. There’s a lot that the history books doesn’t record. Peter appreciates them regardless, chuckling merrily at Stiles wild hand gestures. Afterwards Peter buys Stiles lunch in a cute little café off the main high street. Surprisingly Stiles finds himself enjoying Peter’s company, enjoys how it easy it is to converse with him. Stiles hasn’t liked mortal since. Well since Isaac and that doesn’t count because Scott turned him into a vampire.

 

He keeps going on dates with Peter, each more entertaining than the last. They go to the opera, to the cinema, go-karting, the beach and to numerous fancy restaurants. After a few more dates, Peter takes Stiles back to his apartment and they fuck on Peter’s silk sheets. It’s wonderful. Without even realizing, six months have passed in blissful happiness. And Stiles hates it. Well he doesn’t hate it per say. He just has to keep reminding himself that Peter is mortal. Mortals die. This cannot last forever. It’s a bomb waiting to detonate.

 

They’re lounging in bed one day after a particularly epic round of sex when Peter decides to poke the bomb.

 

“So, the business has made quite a spectacular sale and there’s going to be a family dinner to celebrate.”

 

Stiles makes a wiggly hand gesture to indicates he’s listening but not up to speaking just yet.

 

“My family are quite interested in meeting the person I’ve been seeing,” Peter continues, “Perhaps you would like to come.”

 

Stiles eyes widen. He’s so shocked; he actually falls out of the bed, taking a pillow and half the sheets with him. Peter pops his head over the edge. Stiles is a tangled mess, the pillow is covering his face and the sheets are twisted around his midriff. Peter removes the pillow.

 

“I take it you’re not ready for this,” Peter says. He looks collected but his words are tinged with disappointment.

 

“I don’t do the whole family thing,” Stiles replies. It’s an excuse; he has met mortal families before. It’s just he’s learned his lesson. He’s bending the rules, as it is, being this involved with Peter. But there’s something about Peter that has him clamoring for more. It’s a stupid notion; Peter’s not that special in the gran scheme of things. He’s _mortal_. Still, Stiles finds himself coming back time after time, eager to fuck and be fucked or even sometimes just to talk.

 

“I have met your sister,” Peter counters, “it does leave us rather unbalanced.”

 

Stiles is well aware that Peter is not above manipulation to get what he wants. It’s something that Stiles admires but currently does not appreciate.

 

“I’m gonna assume that you’re going to try and emotionally blackmail me into going aren’t you?”

 

“Why John,” Peter replies, smiling like a wolf, “Did you expect anything less?”

 

 

Stiles can hear Lydia’s voice in the back of his head, screeching about how this is an awful idea. She yelled at him literally an hour ago so the metaphorical wounds are still fresh. Peter seems not to notice Stiles sour mood as they pull up to the Hale family home. Kids are running about the lawn whilst the teenagers slump on the wooden steps and the adults sit in fancy lawn furniture on the deck. Stiles has worn summer clothing deliberately to make a bad impression but everyone else is informal so that point is now moot.

 

Peter parks the car. He leans over to grab Stiles hand, squeezing it in a way that is more than likely meant to be reassuring. He kisses Stiles cheek gently.

 

“Don’t worry,” Peter murmurs, “They’ll love you. And if not then I’ll continue to date you as an act of rebellion.”

 

“You’re thirty-two,” Stiles mutters, “I thought your teenager years were meant to be the rebellious ones.”

 

Peter chuckles, unbuckling his seatbelt.

 

“I was the perfect teenager,” he says, “I believe I’m due an outrageous act of rebellion.”

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow and tries to avoid thinking about his acts of rebellion. Like instigating the French revolution, dating that particularly nasty Incubus to get back at Lydia and telling Zeus about condoms. Although that last one was more of a public service.

 

Peter’s family is very welcoming. Talia, Peter’s older sister, pulls him in for a bone-crushing hug, which Stiles was not expecting. He takes it all in his stride. They are all do their best to engage Stiles in conversation, evidently eager to find out about him. Stiles lies. Lying is second nature to him although for the first time in 4000 years, he feels a little guilty about it. But he has to lie. If there are only three things that Stiles and the rest of the magical realm are good at, it’s magic, survival and lying. Isaac has titled it the holy trinity of staying alive in this realm.

 

Stiles watches the children playing. His childhood so long ago, he’s almost forgot what it’s like to be that innocent and carefree. Peter takes a seat beside him, handing Stiles a cool glass of beer. Stiles accepts gratefully. Peter settles in the chair, following Stiles line of sight.

 

“Do you even think about it?” Peter enquires, “Kids I mean.”

 

Stiles freezes. He can’t have this conversation. The guilt of the lie that’s about to spill from his lips, is rising like bile in his throat. Except it’s not a lie per say, it’s more like a retelling of the truth.

 

“I’ve never thought about kids,” Stiles replies. It’s true. Being immortal, having children with a mortal is a bad idea. Gods and Goddesses only get away with it because they wrote the rules. Plus demigods have chances to become immortal due to the gifts passed on from their Godly parent. Whilst Stiles and Lydia were born with magic, it’s highly unlikely they would pass that craft onto their children. Furthermore it takes years of practice to get to the skill level at which ageing truly stops, regardless of the innate talents. Stiles and Lydia studied under Circe. There’s very few teachers of magic left. The technological age has made it harder to be immortal.

 

“Would you ever consider it?” Peter probes.

 

“No,” Stiles says, hoping his answer isn’t too harsh, “I’m not great with kids.” Peter raises an eyebrow quizzically. Stiles knows that a mere moment ago he was performing basic magic tricks for the younger children but this is his story and he’s sticking to it.

 

“Hey John,” Talia calls, “Could you help me with the washing up? My son, Derek who is my usual helper has slipped off into the woods with his new girlfriend Paige and I highly doubt he’ll be coming back.”

 

“No problem,” Stiles calls back, silently praising Talia as she has saved him from an awkward conversation. He winks at Peter as he passes. “Save my seat.”

 

The Hale kitchen is so unlike his own. Everything in Stiles kitchen is meticulously label to avoid a catastrophic mix-ups. It’s always cleaned to prevent potion cross contamination. The Hale kitchen is a mess. There are utensils everywhere; the kids’ height is recorded on the wall and there are burn marks around the hob. The fridge is lost beneath family photos, children’s artwork and school reports. It’s a family home through and through. Stiles and Lydia have never had that, never wanted that. It doesn’t mean that Stiles can’t be a little wistful for a life he could have had. Provided he’d been born in the 1980’s but still. Talia places the glass pan she has been carrying onto the kitchen counter beside the overflowing sink before turning to face Stiles.

 

“So are you washing or am I?” Stiles asks, his arms open and palms tilted towards Talia. She folds her arms.

 

“You’re not as invested in this relationship as Peter is are you?” she says. It’s a statement not a question. Stiles freezes. It feels as if his heart has leapt into his throat. Talia takes his silence as an admission.

 

“If you’re not in this for the long haul then I suggest you stop now,” she continues, “Peter doesn’t need to be fucked around with. Either you commit or you don’t. I don’t care either way so long as my brother doesn’t get his heart broken.”

 

“Isn’t heartbreak a byproduct of human relationships?” Stiles snaps in reply. He stands up straight; steeling himself against the sibling wrath he’s experiencing.

 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Talia retorts.

 

“I’m pretty sure that Peter is the one who decides who he does and doesn’t date,” Stiles says, “Our relationship is actually none of your business.”

 

“When you break my brothers heart, it will be my business.”

 

“Ah so there is a purely selfish reason for this little chat,” Stiles concludes, standing in a relaxed position to convey that he’s not scared of Talia. He’s older than the entire family combined and has faced far bigger threats than angry siblings, “Want to save yourself from your little brother crying on your shoulder.”

 

“No I want to save him from the damage you’re inevitably going to do.”

 

“What’s going on?”

 

Both Talia and Stiles head’s whip round. Peter is standing in the doorway. He looks pissed but Stiles isn’t sure who he’s angry with. The anger is rolling off Peter in waves and Stiles is sure that if Peter had magic then the flowers on the windowsill would have wilted to ash by now.

 

“John and I were just having a little chat,” Talia says. Stiles snorts with derision. Talia glares at him but Stiles is unimpressed.

 

“Your sister thinks I should either commit myself heart and soul to you or leave,” Stiles says, examining his nails. He really should get Lydia to file them soon. “I told her that our relationship is none of her business but she seems adamant that she knows best.”

 

“Who I date is none of your concern,” Peter says, walking to stand beside Stiles. He kisses Stiles on the forehead, a tender gesture that makes Stiles sick with guilt. “I don’t need you playing the protective older sister role Talia, it’s unbecoming. Now I’m taking Stiles home to fuck him into the mattress and I don’t really care what you think of that.”

 

Talia says nothing. Peter grabs Stiles arm to lead him out of the kitchen. The car ride to Peter’s apartment is silent. A thick silence, which Stiles could cut with a knife if he so wished. Stiles knows that he cannot keep playing this game. One day, Peter is going to die and turn to dust and Stiles will live on, making potions and probably stealing important historical artifacts and so on. This relationship has an expiration date and it been a long time coming. Once inside Peter’s apartment, Peter attempts to kiss Stiles but Stiles forces him to sit down. It’s time to detonate the bomb.

 

“Peter, we have to stop,” Stiles says. He’s pacing in front of the flat screen TV, a nervous ball of energy. He can’t look Peter in the eye.

 

“Don’t listen to my prying sister,” Peter scoffs, “She’s meddles where she’s not wanted. I’m not planning to ask for your hand in marriage.”

 

“Peter we can’t keep doing this,” Stiles says, “I can’t keep doing this.”

 

“Why?”

 

 _Because I love you and can never keep you._ It’s a thought that dies on the way to Stiles lips. He can never be with Peter, not forever. And the idea makes Stiles want to throw up. He’s in love for the first time in 4000 years and it’s with a mortal. So Stiles lies. After all, it’s what he does best.

 

“Because I’m not in this for the long haul,” Stiles lies, “You’re a great fuck Peter but I don’t love you. And probably never will.”

 

Peter looks shocked. He quickly schools his expression into neutral indifference. But that look, the one of shock and pain. Stiles will never forget that. It will haunt his immortal life. Stiles leaves after that. He walks home in under the setting sun and for the first time in 4000 years, he curses his immortality.

 

 

“Stop moping,” Lydia says, “You’re wilting the flowers.” She continues to dust whilst Stiles wills the flowers back to life. It’s been several weeks since Stiles detonated the bomb and still feels like he ripped his heart out and left it behind on Peter’s coffee table. It’s amazing that Lydia hasn’t said I told you so. Stiles has been waiting for it. He takes a drag on his cigarette. He’s quit because Peter had asked him to. Doesn’t matter now.

 

“I thought you’d given up on those dratted things.” Stiles shrugs. Another drag. He wonders what Peter is doing. That’s a downward spiral of thinking but Stiles no longer cares. He misses Peter like an ache, misses the snark and sarcasm. Misses how easy it was to just be with him. Stiles has never missed anyone like this.

 

“Oh for Zeus’s sake,” Lydia mutters. The next thing Stiles feels is a slap across the face. His eyes water and his cheek stings.

 

“Bloody hell Lydia,” Stiles yells, rubbing his cheek whilst stubbing out his cigarette.

 

“I swear to Hera,” Lydia says, her voice calm but brimming with fury, “Epaphroditos if you are in love with this man then you need to find a way to be with him instead of lounging around here like a tragic hero.”

 

Lydia only ever uses his full name when she’s really pissed. Stiles rubs his cheek silently, looking suitably ashamed of himself.

 

“I can’t give him immortality,” Stiles says mournfully, “He has a family and a job. I can’t give up my immortality cause all my years will catch up with me and I’ll crumble to dust. I can’t do this Lydia.” Lydia grabs Stiles by the shoulders and shakes him roughly.

 

“Get up off your ass and get dressed,” Lydia instructs. “I’m bringing Peter here, you are going to explain everything to him and if he doesn’t want anything to do with you after that then I’ll erase both of your memories.” Stiles eyes widen.

 

“You would,” Stiles trails off. Lydia kisses his forehead softly. It’s times like these that Stiles is glad that they’ve stayed together over the years.

 

 

Peter is sitting on Stiles couch, looking unamused and mildly pissed. Stiles is sweating. He hopes he’s not dripping with it. Lydia hands Peter a cup of tea before perching on the loveseat. She motions to Stiles for him to start talking.

 

“So um,” Stiles says. He’s nervous and is trying to restrain himself from reaching out for Peter. “I guess I should start at the beginning. My name isn’t John. It’s long and complicated and Greek cause well I am Greek. So is Lydia but she got a slightly more acceptable name. I mean acceptable by todays standards. Back in Greece, all the cool kids were called Epaphroditos.”

 

“No they weren’t,” Lydia says coolly, taking a sip of her tea. Stiles looks at her imploringly. Peter just looks confused.

 

“Anyway no-one can say Epaphroditos, even though it translates to lovely and charming, which is pretty cool I think but there we go. No one save Lydia and myself can say it. Also my buddy Scott. Isaac tries but he just can’t. It’s a shambles. Point being, that I’m not John. I actually called myself Stiles when I was what, 309, 310. So yeah, I go by Stiles now.”

 

“Stiles,” Peter says dubiously. Stiles nods. Then because he needs to save time in terms of explanation, he casts a spell. His palms catch on fire and his eyes bleed from amber to liquid gold. Peter gasps. The fire extends, covering Stiles whole body until he’s essentially the human torch.

 

“So Stiles and I are witches,” Lydia says conversationally, watching Stiles burn. He tampers it down until the flames dissipate. “We are 4000 years old, trained under Circe. And yes that is the Circe, Ancient Greek enchantress. Who incidentally is still alive and owns a lovely spa off the coast of Crete and isn’t a misandrist. I wish the population would stop painting her that way, it’s damaging to her image.”

 

Stiles has stopped pretending to be a phoenix. He dusts some ash off of his clothes. Peter is breathing heavily. Stiles moves towards him, crouching down in front of him. He takes Peter’s cup, placing it gently on the coffee table. Peter is looking at him with awe rather than disgust. Peter cups his face, stroking a thumb across Stiles cheek.

 

“You couldn’t tell me could you?” Stiles shakes his head.

 

“I hated lying to you,” he murmurs, tears pricking his eyes, “I love you. Holy Zeus, I love you.” Peter kisses Stiles, a brief, chaste thing. It’s sweet and simple.

 

“I missed you,” Stiles mumbles, tears flowing from his eyes freely now. “I don’t want to lose you Peter but you’re mortal and you’ll die and I can’t. I can’t.” Stiles trails off, rubbing at his eyes. “You had to know that I loved you, I couldn’t let you die thinking I didn’t.” Peter is smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

 

“If you feel the same way,” Lydia says, choosing her words with practiced care, “We could make you immortal. It’s not difficult.” Peter looks at her, eyes bright with curiosity.

 

“What would it cost?” Peter enquires. He’s stroking Stiles hair gently. Stiles nuzzles against the hand. It’s a purely selfish action.

 

“Your family,” Lydia says, “We could give you a few more years but they’d notice that you’re not ageing. You either drop out of existence or fake your death. We promise eternity but you’d be giving up what you have.”

 

“Just because you love me now,” Stiles says, “doesn’t mean you’ll love me later. It’s a big decision. We usually give people a year to decide.”

 

“You’ve done this before?” Peter asks.

 

“Kind of. It was with Isaac except it was more making him into a vampire so that he could spend eternity with Scott and like that’s a whole different kettle of fish,” Stiles replies.

 

“A year should be long enough,” Peter concludes.

 

“I’ll mark the calendar,” Lydia says. She flicks her wrist and the calendar flips itself forward to a year from now. The date highlights itself bright pink. Stiles gulps. Perhaps the damage from the bomb isn’t as widespread as he thought.

 

 

“I’m nervous,” Stiles says.

 

“We know,” Isaac drawls. He’s curled up on the sofa like a cat, with Scott running his hand through Isaac’s curls.

 

“What if he has decided he doesn’t want it?” Stiles mutters, pacing the apartment floor. Lydia sighs, throwing her hands up in the air dramatically. Stiles continues to mutter to himself, ignoring the exasperated looks of his friends. He wants Peter so badly, he doesn’t know if he could handle the rejection. The last year has been wonderful, especially since he no longer has to lie to Peter. It’s a weight off his shoulders.

 

The doorbell rings. Stiles freezes. Lydia kicks him. Hard. Stiles walks to the door, palms clammy. He opens it. Peter is down on one knee, presenting an engagement ring to Stiles with a smirk.

 

“Does this answer your question?” Peter asks.

 

 


End file.
